


The Toy

by Telanu



Series: Grace and Frankie: The Remix [3]
Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, Older Characters, Secret Relationship, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telanu/pseuds/Telanu
Summary: Another smutty outtake fromGrace and Frankie: The Remix, and a direct sequel to “The Dessert.” Set a couple of years before the remix begins. In an AU where Grace and Frankie are having an extramarital affair, they meet at the beach house on Sunday afternoon for a secret rendezvous.





	The Toy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Luthien for the wonderful beta!
> 
> Also, I recommend reading ["The Dessert"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11180298) first, although--ironically--you'll be able to follow both stories without reading the actual remix, as long as you know the basic premise of the AU (see summary).

_**Now:** _

 

 

_**Then:** _

 

If Frankie were Frank, this would be easy.

If Frankie were a man, Grace would know how to handle everything. Low lighting. Candles. Silk and soft whispers, posing just right, the faintest touch of perfume between her breasts.

Frankie, of course, is not a man, nor even any brand of woman Grace understands--a woman who would at least recognize all that work. Frankie is Frankie, likely as not to knock over the candles and set the room on fire, but not before saying, “Don’t get offended if I sneeze in the middle of it, perfume does that to me sometimes. You know what you need? Patchouli oil. Also, full disclosure: I had two bean burritos for lunch.”

Grace is completely wasted on her.

She won’t fall short of her own standards, though. She certainly won’t sink to Frankie’s level. Frankie’s idea of creating a seductive environment is to turn on a lava lamp and blast Prince from an ancient cassette deck, grinning while Grace (unbelievably, impossibly) gets off to “Gett Off.”

Not today. It’s Grace’s turn. Technically, the beach house is supposed to be _their_ territory, shared ground. But Grace got here early, which means she gets to plant the flag of civilization. She gets to pop the Ben  & Jerry’s in the freezer next to the sugar-free lemon sorbet, and she gets to chill the Pinot Grigio.

Then she gets to take the lube jar out of the fridge, take the duvet off the bed, fluff the pillows, arrange fresh flowers, and light exactly half a stick of Pottery Barn’s sandalwood incense, which is the only kind they both like. If Frankie insists on music, the Bose player by the bed is ready with a classical guitar compilation. Everything is prepared. Everything is in its place.

So Grace isn’t sure why she’s standing before the full length mirror in the closet, paralyzed as she stares at herself in a patterned Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that’s casually elegant and perfect for the shopping trip Robert thinks she’s on.

(She has, in fact, gone shopping. Yesterday. Ducked into Nordstrom just long enough to buy a pair of shoes that she’s left in the trunk of her car. A neatly bagged alibi for when she gets home, on the 0.000001% probability that Robert might be paying attention. She doesn’t like the shoes. She will return them.

Anyway.)

She’s accessorized with tasteful gold jewelry and classic nude slingbacks, and she looks so goddamn good. Still turning heads at age sixty-eight. Every day, twentysomethings watch her go by and mutter, _God, I hope my fifties look like that._ And she still can’t move, can’t look away from the stranger in the mirror who dares to want something.

What’s happening to her? Three nights ago, she’d sat in the same chair she always sits in during dinner with the Bergsteins, Robert at the other end of the table, and wondered where she was. What she was doing there. Why she even had to be there when every part of her wanted to be somewhere else, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything until Sol said something that made Frankie look at her.

Out of control and out of options, that’s Grace. She’d bent over the kitchen counter and begged Frankie for it while their children were one room away. She should be breathing into a paper bag at what this is doing to her.

She’s not. She’s too grateful to be breathing for the first time in thirty-seven years, period. What else is she supposed to do?

Grace shakes herself out of it and puts her hands on her hips. She turns to examine herself from all angles as she’s done a thousand times before. She tilts her head and puts on her usual polite, close-lipped smile. Poise. Confidence. Calm, for fuck’s sake.

Then her phone beeps with a text, and she almost trips as she pivots to rush back into the bedroom. Her heart is already sinking. Frankie’s going to be late. No, worse--Frankie’s gotten cold feet and is texting to tell Grace she can’t do it, not today and maybe not ever again. She looked at Saint Sol over breakfast and realized she can’t dirty her hands with Grace’s body.

But when the phone steadies in Grace’s grip enough for her to read the text, it says: _Almost there. U ready?_

Their assignation is for two o’clock. The Bose player reads 1:36. Frankie’s early? Frankie’s never early, unless she’s gotten confused again and thinks they’re on Eastern Standard Time.

The little voice at the back of Grace’s skull--the one that’s spent the past four decades yawning--begins to sing.

She tells it, immediately, to shut the hell up. Frankie’s had at least one panicked, guilty foot out the door ever since they started this. The only reason she won’t freak out at Grace’s preparations is that she takes them for granted. She thinks that for Grace, flowers and crisp sheets and classical guitar are just business as usual. Rose petals on the sheets would make her run away screaming. There’s no wiggle room here, and certainly no reason to sing, or soar, or say anything except what Frankie really needs to hear right now.

 _Don’t text and drive,_ Grace responds.

Honestly. The woman can barely keep the car in her lane when she’s got both eyes on the road.

Grace hurries downstairs as quickly as she can in her kitten heels. Frankie makes fun of her “foot skyscrapers,” as she calls them, but more than once over the years, Grace has caught Frankie checking out her legs. Envy, she’d assumed, not anything that could grow into desire.

Just like the way Grace has gazed at Frankie’s impossible hair for decades and told herself the right conditioner would work wonders, because it was exasperating when women didn’t live up to their potential. _See?_ she had imagined telling Frankie countless times. _It’s so frizzy, would it be a crime to make it silky smooth?_ Combing her fingers through Frankie’s hair and catching on tangles to prove her point.

“You fucking idiot,” she mutters as she reaches the foot of the stairs and stomps toward the kitchen. She takes a deep breath. This is not the mood she wants to be in when Frankie gets here. Early.

Giving Grace all the more time to take her revenge.

The thought makes her palms sweat. Well, it’s not wrong, is it, to want a bit of her own back? She needs to punish Frankie for making her wild three nights ago, driving her to the peak so quickly. Shattering her. And then depriving Grace of her chance to do the same.

Grace knows--intellectually--that they’d been pressed for time, and Frankie was being considerate by giving up her turn. Fine. Grace will pay her back with interest today. For every moan Grace gave on Thursday night, Frankie will give two. Every plea and sigh, doubled. And there won’t be any of that “half dressed” nonsense. Grace will have full, unfettered access to every inch of Frankie’s impossibly beautiful skin.   

As Grace fetches two wine glasses from the cabinet, she swallows so she won’t start salivating.   

Even as she’s uncorking the bottle, the door rattles open and Hurricane Frankie blows through, all tunic and turban today, her hair bound up in a silk wrap. Grace’s heart stops, then starts again in double time, each beat whispering _ah, ah, ah._

“Holy fishsticks, is it hot in my car,” Frankie says as she closes the door with a rattle. “I can't turn the heat off, and I’m starting to regret wearing underwear. That wasn’t meant to be seductive, by the way, I’m honestly regretting it. Lucky this breathes so well.” She waves the tie-dyed fabric of her ankle-length tunic. “And Guru Kevin tells me it repels toxins in the atmosphere, so, double win.”

“Why can’t you turn off your heat?” Grace asks, since saying “hello” to Frankie went the way of the dinosaurs long ago.

“Duh!” Frankie throws her left hand in the air. The right one is holding a plastic bag. “Because something's broken, Grace. It's been a while since my holistic mechanic has done a laying on of hands. I'm due for a tune-up."

“Your holist--” Grace shakes her head. “Never mind. What’s in the bag?”

Frankie looks coy. “Only everything we need, and then some.” She sweeps up to the kitchen counter and reaches into the bag. The plastic rustles as she pulls out a can of Reddi-Whip, a CD (“You’re gonna have to open that, Grace, you know I have a phobia”), a fidget spinner, a broken Slinkie (“Whoops!”), and something else Grace doesn’t see before Frankie closes the bag and hides it behind her back.

Grace stares at the stuff on the counter. “Why in God’s name are we going to need any of this?” An awful thought occurs to her. “Frankie, we’re not using whipped cream again. I refuse to get it in my--”

“It’s for the ice cream. I figure I can dip the Fudge Pops in it, or whatever other goodness you brought. You did bring some, right?” Frankie casts an anxious glance at the freezer door.

Grace had plans for how this was going to go, but her head is already whirling as much as that damn fidget spinner would. “Um...yes. Phish Food.” She doesn’t add, _your favorite_. “I thought--”

“Fan- _tastic_.” Frankie grabs the Reddi-Whip and deposits in the fridge without further ado, between the carton of vanilla flavored almond milk and the box of organic butter. “You really think of almost everything, Grace.”

“Almost.” Grace looks over the rest of Frankie’s bizarre treasure trove. “What about all this?”

“The Slinkie was a mistake. You really can’t ask me to be infallible. The CD is mood music. The fidget spinner is...well, you never know. I’ve found it’s always best to have one on hand.” Frankie leans in. Her eyes narrow with her sly grin, the one that means she’s full of shit and she knows it. “You know, in case of traveling salesmen.”

 _Oh help me, help me,_ Grace prays, even as she reaches out, cups the back of Frankie’s neck, and pulls her in for a kiss. She doesn’t know what kind of help she needs--a lifeguard, probably, as the waters close over her head again.

She sinks into the kiss. Frankie’s lips, dry and soft, open for her bit by bit, and for a moment, their breath mingles. Before Frankie, Grace never noticed how intimate that feeling is. Then there’s the aftertaste of bubble gum, the wrapped kind Frankie buys from dispensers in grocery stores and that’s begun to act on Grace as a Pavlovian aphrodisiac.  

The plastic bag falls to the floor with a thump, and Frankie puts her arms around Grace’s waist. Puts her hands on Grace and holds her tight.

 _My body is mine,_ Grace’s mind insists at once, high-pitched and shrill. _It’s mine._ Grace has been saying that to herself since puberty. She owns her body: denies it food, pacifies it with drink, refreshes it discreetly in a plastic surgeon’s office, exercises and dresses it until it’s exactly what she wants everyone to see. It is, with the horrifying exception of pregnancy, under her mind’s complete control.

Until Frankie touches it, and then Grace’s body tells her mind to fuck off while it succumbs to a new master. It will not be denied or deprived. It tells Frankie, _I’m yours, yours, yours._

Frankie can do anything to it. She doesn’t have to be kind. Grace’s body doesn’t know what kindness is.

Frankie is kind anyway. She probably doesn’t know how not to be. She’s soft against Grace’s angles, warm beneath Grace’s cool fingertips. She envelops Grace with her embrace and her kiss, and welcomes her home.  

“Grace,” she says shakily. “You feel so good.”

Understatement. Grace feels better than she ever has. She does not deserve this, she’ll probably go to Hell for it (Frankie won’t, _won’t_ ), but nothing has ever felt this good. She opens her mouth for Frankie again.

The kiss is so right, so perfect, and it’s impossible not to remember the first one they shared: very nearly in this exact spot, followed by a stumble into the pantry, where Grace had an orgasm with her elbow in the bread.

It’s less frantic now, and they have more practice with each other’s bodies. Not that they needed a lot of practice. Grace will always be shocked by how they knew each other immediately, the chemistry between them turning even the clumsiest touch into fire.

She’s not clumsy today as she cups Frankie’s cheek and deepens the kiss, revelling in it even as the ache begins low inside her, already demanding more. Before she can lose herself completely--which will happen the moment Frankie nuzzles her neck--she reaches up and begins to unwind Frankie’s turban.

Frankie holds still, her breath going shallow against Grace’s lips.

Grace used to itch with the desire to dress Frankie, put her in fashionable clothing that wasn’t scrounged from Hippie Howard’s Bargain Bin. In hindsight, that’s something else that should’ve tipped her off. It’s one thing to imagine sending somebody into a dressing room with an armful of blouses. It’s quite another to imagine buttoning them up yourself.

Well, never mind that. Undressing Frankie is even more fun, exposing her from head to toe, piece by piece. Grace tosses the wrap to the counter, and Frankie’s hair uncoils. Grace takes a moment to fluff out the soft weight of it.

“Maybe the ice cream can wait,” Frankie whispers.

“The ice cream can wait,” Grace agrees. She traces a fingertip over Frankie’s collarbone, one of the few bits of skin exposed. As always, she gets a shiver in return. The shiver repeats when Grace bends down to kiss the same spot. Frankie’s skin is extra warm from the heat of her car.

Grace can’t help herself. She kisses Frankie’s collarbone again, then travels up to her neck. Here, there’s the scent of a shampoo Frankie makes herself from coconut milk, castille soap, and orange oil.

Goosebumps rise beneath Grace’s lips, and Frankie holds onto her back. “Grace,” she whispers.

Grace says nothing. Her mouth is busy nipping Frankie’s earlobe, bare, probably in anticipation of this very thing. Frankie’s ears are so sensitive--suckable earlobes, tender ridges, a spot right behind that makes her whimper.

“Oh God.” Frankie’s voice wobbles. “I’m really gonna get it, aren’t I?”

Since Grace is right at Frankie’s ear, it’s the easiest thing in the world to hum a confirmation.

“I was being nice last time.” Still holding Grace, Frankie steps backward until she bumps into the kitchen island.

Grace steps between her spread legs and sighs as their breasts press together. Her nipples are already sensitive, and the soft push of Frankie’s body begins to tauten them. “I know you were.”

Was she, though? The worst moment of the whole night had easily been Frankie saying _I’ve had enough_ while refusing to meet Grace’s eyes, even as Grace had been reaching for her. Grace had felt like she’d been dunked into the North Atlantic. That hadn’t been very nice.

Frankie grips her shoulders. “You are wearing your fancy underwear, right?”

Grace chuckles as affection, all too predictable by now, warms her chest. “I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”

Frankie scowls at her and pushes free of the island, letting go of Grace. “You better be. It’d be just like you to have Hanes on under there just because I asked otherwise.”

Now that is just ridiculous. Grace rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah. I’ve really been terrible about taking requests.” Over the past few months, she’s done things she’d never imagined before just because Frankie asked for them, and so far everything Frankie has asked for has turned out brilliantly.

Except the whipped cream. Never again.

“No, you haven't. Which is a good thing. Um.” Frankie clears her throat and glances over at the plastic bag she dropped on the floor.

Oh, no. “Frankie, what’s in there?”

“Gee, I’d tell you, but you know what?” Frankie pats her shoulder. “I’d hate to ruin the surprise. Wanna skip the wine and go upstairs? You can show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

Grace shuts up the little voice again, because now it’s saying, _You’re definitely going to need alcohol for this._ Force of habit. Whatever Frankie has planned will be certifiably insane, but Grace will end up loving it nevertheless.

Probably.

“Crap, I almost forgot the mood music,” Frankie adds. She picks up the CD case. “ _The Essential Aerosmith._ What a bullshit title, how can you fit the essential Aerosmith on one CD? It doesn’t even have ‘One Way Street.’”

Like _hell_. “Frankie--”

“But ‘Deuces Are Wild,’ that’s the stuff, am I right? I, uh...” Frankie fiddles with the case and turns a little pink. “I think it works, and--and hey, who can forget ‘Rag Doll’? Or--”

“Classical guitar!” Grace holds up both palms. “I’ve got a playlist.”

Frankie stares at her.

“I mean, it _is_ a kind of guitar,” Grace says desperately. “Right? We can compromise.”

Frankie looks at the CD with dismay. “But I spent all morning thinking about eating you out to ‘Love In An Elevator.’”

Grace’s face fills with heat. So much for subtle, tasteful eroticism. It’s not that Grace doesn’t want this with every fiber of her being, but really, could Frankie be cruder?

“You wouldn’t believe what I was gonna do when I hit the line” --Frankie waggles her eyebrows-- ‘“Go-ing _dowwwn.’”_

Grace closes her eyes. “I would believe it, actually. Frankie, it’s my turn.”

Frankie scoffs. “Your turn? For mood music?”

Now Grace meets Frankie’s gaze head-on and says, “That too.”

It’s not just music. It’s her turn to do the devouring, and she’s pretty damn sure she can transform Frankie into a whimpering heap in time with “Memories of the Alhambra."

Frankie gulps and goes even pinker this time.

It’s irresistible, so Grace doesn’t bother resisting. She kisses Frankie. Puts her fingers in all that hair, which is a mistake, because now she doesn’t want to pull away again even though they’re still in the kitchen. Even though they’re meant to be going upstairs and making lo...having sex on a bed like civilized people. Where she’s got the fluffed pillows, the incense, and the playlist.

Frankie grabs her ass and squeezes it with the kind of enthusiasm she usually reserves for games of hacky sack. She pushes one leg between Grace’s. Grace arches forward with an involuntary squeak, rubbing herself against Frankie’s absurdly strong thigh, and _ah,_ that pressure, right where she needs it most--

“We could do it right here,” Frankie says breathlessly. “I thought about it before, when we were in the kitchen at your place.”

When Frankie had her up against the wall, kissing her after Grace had spent the whole day pummeled by fantasies. With their families on the other side of the wall, Grace had only thought of Frankie unzipping her pants and torturing her all the way into relief.

“Oh,” she manages, and then _“oh,”_ as Frankie’s hand sneaks beneath the flap of her wrap dress, seeking. She nearly collapses back against the counter when Frankie finds the silk and lace between her thighs and presses impertinently against the spot that’s already damp.

“Jesus, Grace.” Frankie kisses Grace’s neck. Her hand slides upward until it begins to steal beneath the waistband of Grace’s panties.

“F-Frankie--” _No,_ she should say, _too fast, upstairs,_ something like that. She can’t. Frankie’s fingers brush against her lips, press between them to find her slickness. It’s not enough, it won’t carry them through the afternoon, but God, for years she’d actually forgotten what it was like to get wet without help from a tube. Or a jar.

It’s fantastic, that’s what it is. When Frankie kisses her neck again, higher up, Grace grabs that glorious hair once more. Coconut, orange oil, sweat, all of it so potent that she’s about to melt right here and now.

“Dirty girl,” Frankie murmurs. One fingertip touches Grace lightly enough that it’s almost a tickle.

Grace reminds herself that getting her skirt lifted in the kitchen is coarse, degrading, and not at all what she should want. As usual, her body smacks her mind down. This is _exactly_ what she wants. If Frankie decides to crank up the Aerosmith right now, it won’t make a bit of difference.

Frankie sighs and pulls her hand away. She licks her fingertips, and as usual, Grace feels faint at the sight. Erotic, decadent, outrageous--

“Go-ing _uuup,_ ” Frankie sings as she glances toward the staircase.

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

 

* * *

 

At first, she’d told herself it was just the mind-blowing sex. That, and doing a forbidden thing after a lifetime of making straight As, using the right fork, and walking away from handsome contractors. In fact, she’d thought that must be _why_ the sex was so mind-blowing; she’d been saving all her self-indulgence up, and at age sixty-eight she was igniting.

There’s always been something about Frankie Bergstein that gets under her skin, after all. (Not women in general. Definitely not. Just Frankie.) So she’d decided that irritation had simply transformed into physical passion. How could it be anything more profound when they’d spent thirty years annoying the shit out of each other?

That hypothesis had gone right out the window when, after they’d collided three times, Frankie had said, “We’re never doing it again. I can’t. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done _.”_ She’d been grabbing her Led Zeppelin T-shirt, unable to look Grace in the eye as they sat on a bench in Kellogg Park. “I can’t be this person anymore.”

Hours later, any number of cruel responses would leap to Grace’s mind. Name-calling, accusations of cowardice and hypocrisy, all of it heartfelt and none of it true. But in the moment, her thought process had flatlined, leaving her to croak, “Of course.”

Once Frankie had left and Grace was able to breathe again, she’d driven away, narrowly avoided a fender bender, and pulled over into the Shell gas station parking lot. She’d stared at her trembling hands and wondered how she was supposed to get through what came next: wanting and never having. Ahead of her stretched a future of seeing Frankie Bergstein during holidays and shared vacations and dinners, needing her like oxygen and suffocating instead. Or burning, flames engulfing her every time she and Frankie got within three feet of each other, with no hope of relief.

 _Just sex._ Sure. She was fucked, all right.

But Frankie’s resolve had only lasted for one week, until Memorial Day weekend at the beach house. Everyone was out on the shore while Grace washed the same pan for ten minutes. Then she’d felt a shaking hand touch her back.

They haven’t stopped since.

Frankie kicks off her clogs and throws herself backward onto the bed, bouncing against the mattress with a whoop. She drops the plastic bag on the left pillow, but when Grace reaches for it, she stops her. “Whoa, slow down, lady. At least let me feel you up a little first.”

The sweat begins to gather in the small of Grace’s back again. She slips out of her heels and crawls onto the bed, glancing at the Bose player.

Frankie makes an impatient noise and rolls toward her. “Forget the music. I’ll make you sing. Nice touch with the incense, by the way.”

Grace can’t hold back a smile. Frankie, appreciating her preparations? It must be a seasonal miracle. “Speaking of nice touches…”

Frankie’s lips quirk up, and as always, Grace isn’t quite sure if Frankie is laughing with her sallies, or at them. That wasn’t a bad segue, was it? Frankie had practically set it up for her.

“Speaking of them,” Frankie agrees. She grabs Grace’s thigh. “C’mere.”

That’s not nice, or smooth, or anything but presumptuous, but Grace is already shivering as she c’meres. Frankie cups her ass again as they lie down together, pulls Grace’s leg over her thigh, and they kiss. Bubble gum. Grace slides her fingers into Frankie’s hair and sighs through her nose.

Frankie draws her hands over Grace’s ass, then back up to the base of her spine, where she lingers. She traces little circles through the fabric. Grace shivers again. She’s so sensitive there, something else she hadn’t known until Frankie. Now Frankie teases the spot, touching it so lightly that Grace squirms for more pressure.

Frankie smiles against her mouth. Her touch grows firmer, just enough to make Grace’s whole spine tingle. As if sensing this, Frankie draws her thumb upward, over the middle of Grace’s back, stopping at the nape of her neck. That’s the spot where she’d kissed Grace at the coffeemaker, driving Grace headfirst into the realization that she’d never survive the night if they couldn’t have each other.

“I like how much you like this.” Frankie draws her thumb back down to the base of Grace’s spine. “Remember the first time I kissed you here?”

Grace bites her lip as Frankie’s fingertips join her thumb and begin circling again. The touch is nearly as powerful as the memory Frankie’s called forth. “Yes. I-I remember.”

“What do you remember? Specifically?” Frankie gives Grace a warm, lazy kiss that draws the answer out of her.

“I was...on my hands and knees.” Grace still can’t believe she’d done that, much less how wild it had driven her. It shouldn’t have, it had been so _animal,_ she should have been ashamed-- “You were kissing my back. And you were...” She pauses. Even now, she can’t bring herself to be so explicit. “Touching me.”

“You mean, I was in you. And I had to pull out.” Frankie kisses her beneath her ear. “You could barely feel me. Too much lube when you were already so hot for it.”

Grace’s cheeks heat up, too. God, it’s so humiliating to hear it out loud, much less from the woman who’d done it to her. Does she want to turn away? Her hips push forward, gently, before she can decide.

Frankie continues, “I rubbed your clit instead. I could hear my hand sliding against you, you were so wet...and by then, all you could say was my name.” She drags her fingers down Grace’s spine again. “I licked you here, and you came. Yeah. I vaguely recall how it went.”

Oh, really. Does Frankie recall it in her dreams, too? Does she wake up whimpering, her back to her husband and her hand already between her thighs?

There is so much Grace remembers in her dreams. Their first time features a lot.

After Grace’s climax in the pantry, Frankie had staggered back with horror in her eyes that stung worse than a slap. And yet Grace had lain awake that night while Robert snored at her side, knowing that Sol was snoring too, two doors away. And that Frankie was in her studio, where she’d fled after supper, claiming her latest “inspiration” would keep her up there all night.

At 12:32 a.m., Grace had slipped out of bed, out of the house, and climbed the stairs to Frankie in her bare feet and nightgown.

Frankie had been sitting on the edge of the studio’s tatty sofa bed. She’d looked up at Grace with equal parts fury and longing before pulling her down on the thin mattress, where they fucked and fucked and fucked as if they’d borrowed staying power from a couple of twenty-year-olds. Frankie had fingered her with one hand and used the other to cover her mouth, whispering _I’m gonna make you come again, be quiet, oh Grace, you’re going to come, you gotta be quiet._

Not today. Grace isn’t going to muffle anything today, and she won’t have back pain tomorrow. They’re on a comfortable bed while they take their time, gliding against each other, kissing and caressing until Grace’s head spins.

She touches Frankie’s breast. Frankie’s breath catches against her mouth, and a delicious warmth spreads through Grace. It’s like this every time she...initiates, makes a move like she’s never done with men. With men, it was about waiting for whatever they wanted to do to her, or for her. With Frankie, she’s learning to go for what she wants and find out if Frankie wants it too.

She wants it, if the way she pushes into Grace’s hand is any clue. “Mmm.”

“I can’t wait to see these.” Grace kisses Frankie’s lower lip and cups her breast more firmly. “To taste them.”

“O-oh?”

“You knew you were going to get it.” Grace moves her kisses to Frankie’s jaw.

“Yeah. Oh God.” Frankie’s hips press against Grace’s. “But surprise surprise, so are you.”

Her gaze slides over to the plastic bag. She sticks her tongue in her cheek.

Right. She’s kept Grace hanging long enough. Besides, it’s just possible that she’s planning to make Grace so crazy that Grace won’t object to whatever’s in that bag. And given that so far Grace has gone along with everything, and Frankie _still_ thinks she might say no, it must be a humdinger.

She lets go of Frankie’s breast. “Spit it out.”

“Kinky, Hanson.” But luckily for her, Frankie doesn’t spit anything. Instead, she climbs over Grace with an _oof,_ barely managing not to plant her knee in Grace’s stomach.

“Don’t call me Hanson,” Grace says in exasperation. “I told you, it makes me feel like we’re partners in a cop show.”

“Yeah, well.” Frankie picks up the plastic bag without looking at Grace. “Bet you’d change your tune if we ever tried handcuffs.”

Grace’s stomach swoops as she sits up. Apprehension, arousal, who knows? “Uh…”

Frankie pauses and looks over at her. “You’re not into props?”

That’s how she frames her questions whenever they try something new. It’s never, _Have you done it?_ Frankie doesn’t want to know about what Grace has done with Robert, or with anybody else. If Grace thought it was jealousy, she’d float right up to Cloud Nine, but it’s not. Frankie just doesn’t want to be reminded of their lives outside this room.

“I don’t know,” she says in a voice that’s much too small.

Frankie’s eyes light up. “So maybe you are!”

Grace remembers the fuzzy pink handcuffs she’s seen in the windows of novelty shops, and doubts that she is. “The longer you put this off, the less I think I’m going to like it.”

“Don’t freak out. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not nearly that bad.” Frankie rustles through the plastic bag, and then pulls out her big surprise. “Tah-dah!”

Grace stares at it. It’s a few moments before she can manage to speak, not because she’s outraged, but because she’s completely mystified. “What the hell is that?”

“Duh. It’s a vibrator!” Frankie thrusts the purple...thing at Grace. “Double ended, so we can both use it at the same time.”

“We can…” Grace trails off. Against her better judgment, she takes it. A vibrator? She’s never used one, although even she knows what the “back massagers” in CVS really are.

This does not look like a back massager. This looks like a new age sculpture you’d see in a pretentious art gallery, or Frankie’s house. It seems to be a piece of silicone that somebody bent so that one end is folded over the other, not quite halfway, ending in a bulb shape. The other end is longer and curves gently upward. It’s easy to see where that part’s supposed to go, but what about the shorter end? And what’s going on with the nub poking up in the middle?

“Look.” Frankie taps the bulb on the short end. “This part goes inside the person on top. Or, you know, on bottom, or wherever. The person doing the--” She curls the fingers of one hand into a tunnel and pokes her other index finger through it. “Anyway, it’s supposed to rub against the G-spot, and this right here…” She points at the nub. “This presses on the clit. For both people, if you can get lined up right.”

“Huh.” Grace holds the vibrator in both of her palms, frowning at it. She can’t deny its simple, functional elegance. Aren’t vibrators supposed to look like silly bunny rabbits? The ones that aren’t back massagers, anyway.

It does feel nice in her hands. Solid. Maybe a little heavy--she probably couldn’t hold it too long without her arthritis flaring up. But its texture is smooth and velvety, pleasant to touch. Without thinking, she rubs her thumb over the tip.

When Frankie inhales sharply, Grace looks at her to find that her cheeks have gone pink once more.

Frankie clears her throat. “So, you, uh, digging the idea?”

“I don’t know.” Grace frowns at the toy again. “I thought you said it was a vibrator? How does it--oh.” There’s a little button sticking out right where the vibrator bends. She presses it.

Then, ridiculously, she drops the vibrator when it begins to buzz, gasping like a Victorian spinster who’s clutching her pearls.

Frankie burbles with laughter and claps her hands as the damn thing wriggles and hums against the sheets. “There are five settings!” She sounds as proud as a mother showing off her child’s blue-ribbon science fair project. “And that’s just the lowest one. Check this out.” She picks up the toy and presses the button again and again, walking Grace through the five settings, the last of which makes her vagina want to clang shut like an iron trap.

Grace pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “Not _that_ one.”

“Yeah, agreed. I’m pretty sure you’re only supposed to use Speed Five to drill your way out of prison.” Frankie clicks the button again, and the vibrations mercifully stop. She giggles. Her eyes sparkle with delight.

Oh, Christ. They’re going to use it. Frankie’s eyes are sparkling, and Grace is going to find herself on her back getting worked over by a silicone eggplant.

She eyes it in Frankie’s hands, trying not to be intimidated. It’s a little smaller than Robert. Shouldn’t be a problem with plenty of lubricant. And in the past few months, she’s discovered so many new pleasures, things she would never have dreamed of. Maybe this will be one of them, even if right now it seems a little…

Might as well say it: _uninspired_. She’s spent thirty-seven years getting fucked in varying degrees of lackluster, and she’s not chomping at the bit to try it with Frankie too.

Then again, oral sex never did it for her either. If you’d asked her five months ago, she’d have sworn it just wasn’t her thing. But now, the instant Frankie licks her lips, Grace is ready to throw her panties across the room. So perhaps this will be different too, just because it’ll be Frankie.

Frankie on top of her. Inside her. Fucking her.

Suddenly, Grace is blushing while her skin starts to prickle. Oh. Well. Okay, they can try this, if Frankie’s absolutely going to insist.

She clears her throat. “I guess we can give it a shot. Just take it easy on me, all right?” It never hurts to remind Frankie not to damn the torpedoes.

“I think that’s my line.”

Grace frowns. “Sorry?”

“I don’t want to be the one on top, Grace.”

Grace’s eyes widen. “What? You’re not--you mean--”

“I mean, I want you to do me,” Frankie says, as patiently as if she’s speaking to a frightened cat. “Shiver my timbers. Jolly my roger. Work the ol’ peg leg. Use your pirate metaphor of choice.”

If Grace asks _why pirates,_ they’ll be here all day. Just as well she can’t speak. She looks mutely at the vibrator in Frankie’s hand. Frankie doesn’t want to fuck Grace? She wants Grace inside her?

Heat infuses Grace, so red and sudden she can barely breathe. Her clitoris pulses, her nipples stiffen until they hurt, and the little voice in the back of her head moans, _Jesus, yes._

Then it’s drowned out by another thought, one that ices over the heat until Grace feels frozen solid. It hits her so fast that she can't stop herself from voicing it: “Why do you want that? Do you wish I was a man or something?”

_Do you wish I was something else? Somebody else?_

_Your husband?_

Frankie stares at her. Then she wags the purple vibrator in the air and says, “Well, obviously. That’s why I went for realism.” She rolls her eyes before Grace can reply. “Get with it, Grace. Penis envy is a myth, and this looks nothing like a dong. You didn’t even know what it was.”

The scorn in Frankie’s voice is enough to send Grace straight from insecurity into righteous anger. “Well, why should I? When would I ever have used one of these? When--” She almost says, _When would you?_ But then Frankie might actually tell her, and Grace doesn’t want to know. She just doesn’t.

“Whoa, chill out.” Frankie raises both her hands, which means the vibrator points proudly at the ceiling fan. “I don’t expect you to have a Ph.D. in dildos. Besides, you know better than anybody that heteronormativity isn’t my paradigm.”

“Your para...hetero- _what?”_ Has Frankie been taking Esperanto classes again?

“Heteronormativity, jeez. It is what it sounds like. Presuming everything’s gotta be straight to be ‘normal,’ and I don’t jam with that.” Frankie shakes her head. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Grace. I don’t want you to be a man.” She abruptly seems fascinated by the vibrator again. “I want you to, you know, be who you are. Be Grace. A gorgeous pain in my ass.”

Grace’s anger fades, probably because she’s already bracing for Frankie to look up and say--

“If you know what I mean.” Frankie’s eyes gleam again.

“I’ll be careful.” The words come out of Grace without permission. When Frankie seems to light up from the inside, she can’t bring herself to regret them.

“Excellent.” Frankie bounces. “When I saw this at Bibi’s garage sale, I knew it was meant to happen.” She holds up a hand. “Kidding, kidding! It’s from what’s-its-name, that white shop on Garnet.”

Grace doesn’t know the white shop on Garnet, but she does know how the Bergstein family finances operate. Sol takes care of everything. Was Frankie savvy enough to pay for this thing in cash, or is her husband going to ask about a puzzling charge on the monthly statement?

It’s not Grace’s problem (until it is), and she’ll be damned if she brings it up now. “Glad to hear it. Uh--so how do you want to start?”

“Well, probably by taking off our clothes,” Frankie says. She eyes the neckline of Grace’s wrap dress, which is just low enough to show a little decolletage. She sets the vibrator down on a pillow and leans forward. “Show me what you got. Bam-chicka-bam-bam.” She waves her index fingers like drumsticks. “Hear that? It’s my backbeat.”

“I take it back about the Aerosmith,” Grace mutters, but lets it go. She’s learned how to shut Frankie up. It starts with taking off her gold hoop earrings and link bracelet (no rings today, none at all). She reaches beneath her skirt and unfastens the clasp that keeps the dress secure on a windy day.

Then she slides off the bed and stands on her bare feet, just like she did on that first night. The cream carpet feels better than the wooden steps that lead up to Frankie’s studio. The room is warmer, filled with sun instead the dim light of a rickety lamp.

But one thing hasn’t changed--as she begins to disrobe, Grace never looks away from Frankie’s eyes.

She doesn’t have to. She’s worn wrap dresses so many times that she can get them on and off in her sleep. Grace thanks herself for this foresight as she keeps her eyes on Frankie while she opens the bow that sits near her hip.

When the sash drops, Frankie stares as if she thinks the fabric will fall open at once, and pouts when it doesn’t.

Grace bites back a smile and slips the sash through the small hole on the right side. _Now_ is when the dress should hang loose and expose her, but she holds it shut over her abdomen.

“Gra-ace,” Frankie whines.

Grace shakes her head. Still holding the dress closed, she crawls onto the bed and reclines, propping up her shoulders and head against a pile of pillows. Then she parts her collar the littlest bit, enough to expose the black lace straps of her bra.

Frankie’s eyes widen. She leans forward.

 _Yes,_ Grace’s body whispers, _look at me._

Frankie presses her lips into a thin line.

 _Look at me. See me._ Grace parts the collar a little more. “You always want everything all at once,” she murmurs. “You love to make me wait, but when it’s your turn…”

“Um.” Frankie can’t seem to tear her gaze away from Grace’s chest. “I…”

“When it’s your turn, I’m supposed to give it to you as fast as you want. I like that,” Grace adds, lest it come across as a criticism. “I do like that, Frankie, but there’s no rush today. Is there?”

She opens the collar enough to show Frankie the lacy edge of the bra cups. Frankie’s mouth opens and closes silently.

“I told you,” Grace breathes. “It’s waiting for you. See?”

Frankie sees, she must see, because her gaze wanders over Grace like fingertips. So tactile that Grace gets goosebumps again, and gets dizzy, too. No, they can’t rush this, she needs to savor it. Just in case it never happens agai--

Grace pulls her collar open a little wider before she can go too far down that road. She travels it enough in her nightmares. No reason to let it ruin the moment. Not when Frankie is caressing her with a look alone, priming her, waking the hunger between her thighs without a single touch.

Then, without warning, Frankie reaches out with a shaking hand. Before Grace can stop her, she puts her palm flat on Grace’s exposed skin.

Grace gasps. She wasn’t ready. Her eyes close as the heat of Frankie’s hand rushes through her, her heartbeats go wild, and she knows a flush is spreading across her chest. “Oh...”

Frankie slides her palm down until it cups Grace’s breast, still covered by the dress. Grace gasps again as her nipples harden once more, and her hands go weak, easy prey for Frankie to push aside. She opens Grace’s dress wide enough to expose the whole bra.

It’s Carine Gilson, as promised, with black lace and satin scalloped over nude mesh. Grace found it on sale, but it’s still unspeakably extravagant. And worth every penny as Frankie’s eyes glaze over.

“Aw,” Frankie manages, “aren’t you a...a pretty…” She bites her bottom lip. “Oh Jesus, Grace.”

“So,” Grace begins, but before she can finish with _you like it_ , Frankie cups her again, bends down, and begins kissing along the edge of her bra. Her hair tumbles against Grace’s skin.

Grace grabs her back. “Oh! So you, you--”

She never finishes. Frankie pulls the whole dress open and sits up to see what she’s uncovered. Grace shivers as her gaze drops immediately to the matching silk panties. The ones that are already damp, and getting damper by the second.

“God,” Frankie whispers. She puts a hand on Grace’s stomach, over taut muscles and the stretch marks that won’t go away. She’s left the rings off today, too. “This is for me?”

 _All for you, every inch,_ Grace longs to say, but she only manages, “Uh huh.”

“Wow.” Frankie bends down again, but between Grace’s thighs this time, nosing at the silk. She breathes against the damp spot, and when Grace’s hips jerk, she adds, “Oh, _wow._ ”

“F-Frankie--” Then Frankie’s tongue brushes her, and Grace’s sentence dies in a whimper.

“What’s it like through silk?” Frankie presses a kiss against the fabric. “How much can you feel?” She licks again, between Grace’s lips.

“I--” Keep breathing. Breathe. She’s already swelling, opening--God knows she hates poetry, but it’s impossible not to think of blossoming, too. _Breathe._ “I--”

“Could you come like this?” Another lick. Frankie’s tongue is hot through the silk, and Grace’s thighs spread wider. “Is it enough?”

Enough? It’s far too much. The most sensual fabric on earth moves against Grace with every stroke of Frankie’s tongue. Even worse is the sight of Frankie down there, visibly deciding whether to pleasure or torment her. Grace isn’t on the edge yet, but she’s hurtling there with terrifying speed. “I could... _ah!_ Yes, I...”

“Oh, honey.” Frankie kisses the inside of her thigh. She often says she loves it there, loves how soft it is and how good it feels to linger so close to Grace’s center. All Grace knows is the riptide of need it pulls her into. “I want to feel you.”

That means skin. Naked skin. Frankie’s body. “Yes,” Grace gasps.

She sits up and makes short work of her dress, wriggling out of it and tossing to the floor while Frankie pulls her voluminous tunic over her head. For a moment, her hair floats and crackles with static electricity. She used to be hesitant to undress, a reluctance bordering on what Grace considered the pathological, but that’s history now. Their bodies feel too good together to waste time on neurosis.

Frankie’s tunic must be lined, because she’s not wearing a bra. Grace ogles her naked breasts, still a surprise after all this time, even given the way they’d met. “Do these things look right to you?” Frankie had asked while she’d flashed Grace, setting the tone for twenty-seven years.

 They look just fine today. Grace grabs Frankie by the waist, leans in, and starts sucking on one nipple before Frankie gets her harem pants off. 

 _“Ah!”_ Frankie grabs Grace’s head, holding her there as if Grace might try to get away. No chance. There’s nothing like this texture against her tongue, the tip of Frankie’s nipple hard between her lips. And Frankie loves it, said once that heaven would be smoking a doobie while Grace sucks her.

Grace could deal with that.

“Thought you said you were wearing underwear,” she mumbles against Frankie’s skin.

“That has a...oh! F-flexible definition.” Frankie drags her fingertips over Grace’s shoulders. She keeps her nails clipped short these days. They both do. It’s practical in a variety of ways, including not leaving scratch marks on each other’s backs.

Even if Grace would like to.

While she keeps her mouth busy, Frankie’s hands drop from her shoulders to fumble with the back of her bra. She's so clumsy and hurried that for a second Grace thinks she'll tear it, snapping the delicate threads and hooks.

But Frankie gets it open, and Grace sits back enough for Frankie to slide the bra down her arms before throwing it back over her shoulder. Then she pushes Grace back down to the bed and lies on top of her, kissing her while their bare breasts rub together. They sigh in unison, and the sound is sensual enough to make Grace wrap her legs around Frankie’s waist.

Frankie’s hips press down as Grace’s push up, and they rub against each other there, too. Pleasure arcs through Grace like a current, and it must do the same to Frankie, who moans, “Oh Grace...not like this, I don’t wanna hump you like a--”

“I know.” Grace doesn’t unwrap her legs. Maybe she can’t. If she lets go of Frankie, who knows what will happen? “I know what you want.”

“Yeah?” Frankie raises herself up just enough to wedge one hand between their bodies. “Is it also what you want, Grace?”

She finds the damp spot on Grace’s panties again and begins to stroke it. Grace smothers a cry in the curve of Frankie’s neck, and then another one when Frankie’s touch grows firmer.

“Feels like you want it,” Frankie says hoarsely, and Grace can’t argue. Sparks of sensation well up from her center, and she’s unable to control them or slow them down. In this position, she can only take it.

That won’t do at all.

“Stop,” she gasps. “Roll over.” To show she’s serious, she nips Frankie’s neck.

“Oh, man,” Frankie groans. “At least let me take my pants off.”

“Take everything off.” _Pay her back. With interest._ “I will too.”

“You’re so damn bossy,” Frankie says, which is pretty rich coming from a woman who’s already getting out of her pants to reveal waist-high cotton briefs covered with little blue flowers. Small, dark, curly hairs peek out from beneath the elastic of the leg bands.

As always, Frankie gives Grace a look of defiance, as if daring her to criticize or shame. Then she wriggles the underwear off, and it joins the rest of the clothing on the floor. That’s everything except for Grace’s silk panties, which must have a sizable wet spot now, both from her own arousal and Frankie’s mouth.

“Well?” Frankie demands as she sits bare-assed on the bed, but as usual, Grace is too overwhelmed to do or say anything. There’s nothing like the sight of Frankie nude, all that soft, unblemished skin. Grace has spent the last few months memorizing every erogenous zone she can find, and yet every time still feels like the first. Is this truly for her, is she really allowed to have this?

For how long?

“Come on, sister,” Frankie says, “it’s your tur--”

“It sure as hell is,” Grace says, and leaves her panties right where they are as she leans forward and presses her face between Frankie’s legs.

“Grace!” Frankie’s fingers dig into her shoulders again. “Oh--God--”

This angle’s never going to work. “Lie down.”

“Wait, wait.” Frankie cups her face and urges her up for a kiss that’s probably meant to placate her. “Not like this today, please, honey. I want the, you know, the...” She trails off into another kiss.

Grace kisses her back. “We can do both,” she growls. She got the barest whiff of Frankie’s scent, her taste, and it’s not enough. Nowhere near.

Frankie gives a shaky laugh. “You sure about that?”

No, Grace isn’t sure. Not when they both love this so much, when it always makes them lose their heads.  

She’d gone down on Frankie first. Nobody would ever believe it, but it’s true. She’d been wild with desire, and terrified, and desperate to prove she was neither of those things.

Her blood had sung in her veins at the very first taste. She’d thought, _Yes, this is right,_ before she stopped thinking thanks to Frankie’s slit beneath her mouth and Frankie’s hands sliding through her hair. Frankie’s one whimpered instruction (“harder”) had set off a chain reaction in Grace’s brain that wouldn’t be stopped.

It’s never stopped. She can’t get enough. Frankie can’t deny her, can she? Not again?

“Just for a second,” Grace pleads against Frankie’s mouth. “Just let me--for a second, please--”

“Damn you, Grace.” Frankie’s already lying down and spreading her legs. “Oh God, you witch.”

If Grace wasn’t about to pass out with need, Frankie’s words might make her laugh, the idea that _Grace_ is the one casting the spell that’s bound them together. Instead, she muffles her urge to get right to it and take Frankie into her mouth. This is apparently the only chance she gets, so she’ll make it count for something.

She kisses downward, over Frankie’s soft belly, over the small paunch beneath her navel that Grace has come to love. She pauses to flick her tongue against Frankie’s belly button, then nips the skin right below, soft and pale. Sensitive, too.

Frankie sighs and parts her legs wider, her knees rising up on either side of Grace’s head.

 _No,_ Grace tells her eager tongue, _not yet,_ as she nuzzles Frankie’s pubic hair. It’s softer and far sparser than the hair on her head, but no less deserving of attention. Grace inhales, taking in the smell, the texture of hair and flesh against her closed lips, keeping her eyes half-lidded so she can see the flush creeping over Frankie’s pale skin.

“Grace--” Frankie begins.

She avoids Frankie’s parted lips and instead drops gentle kisses on the curves of her inner thighs, barely touching her at first. Frankie’s not wrong about how good this feels on the giving end. When Frankie shifts restlessly, Grace makes her kisses firmer, and opens her mouth so that she’s brushing against Frankie’s outer lips while she switches sides, going back and forth.

Frankie’s hands slide into her hair, and her scalp tingles, a crackle of electricity that immediately runs all the way down her spine. “Grace,” Frankie whispers, “you’re making me ready and you’ve hardly even done anyth--”

Grace opens her mouth wider and goes for it.

It’s like coming home. The smell, the taste, how _warm_ it is against her tongue. Frankie’s folds are swelling, filling, her pink flesh is blushing darker. Grace licks her slit, coaxing out the moisture, nectar she wants to drink. Drags her slickened tongue upward, sharing the wealth with Frankie’s clit. She circles it while Frankie makes a soft, helpless sound and tugs at the back of Grace’s head.

“God, baby,” she moans, “you’re so good.” Her legs spread wider, and she lifts her hips into Grace’s mouth. “I wanted this last time.”

Last time. Thursday. When she’d pushed Grace away as if she didn’t want her. But she had?

“I got myself off thinking about it later. Grace, you’re--” Frankie rocks her hips again. “You’re--”

Grace never finds out what she is, because she begins dragging the flat of her tongue between Frankie’s lips, a move Frankie loves, again and again. On the upstroke, she flicks the tip of her tongue against Frankie’s opening, and never puts full pressure on her clit. She lets herself moan, sigh, hum, all the noises that tell Frankie how good she tastes, how much Grace loves going down on her. And she wraps her hands around Frankie’s thighs, holding her against Grace’s hungry mouth.

 _“Baby!”_ Frankie’s hands tighten on the back of Grace’s head. She pulls her in even as she begs, “Oh honey, please...don’t make me come…”

The shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it? Grace gives Frankie another lick, a good firm one that makes her writhe. She doesn’t plan her next moan, it just slips out of her, because Frankie’s getting wetter. If they had the lube, she’d be soaking Grace’s chin by now. That’s the best feeling in the world, having Frankie all over her face.

“Grace, Grace,” Frankie chants above her. Her fingers wind into Grace’s hair. “Grace, you’re going to make me come--how do you make me want it like this, you’re making me want it--”

Grace wants it too, wants Frankie to fall apart under her mouth, shaking and crying out. They don’t have to stop after this, do they? They can keep going, can’t they?

“And you love it too. Fuck.” Frankie tugs on Grace’s hair. “Tell me.”

“I love it,” Grace pants against Frankie’s flesh.

“You want to do it to me all the time. You can’t...ah!...help yourself--”

Grace pushes her hips down, rubbing against the bed, and she can’t help that either. Her body’s begging for relief. Frankie might as well be fucking her when she talks like this. She doesn’t even have to talk. Eating her out turns Grace on so hard she can barely stand it, turned her on so much the first time that Frankie barely had to _breathe_ on her afterward.

It’s her turn. She can make Frankie come like this. She can go inside with her tongue and feel Frankie quiver against it, then wrap her lips around that sweet, swollen clit, suck on it so the flavor will linger in her mouth--

 _No._ No, she can’t. Frankie doesn’t want that, not really, and she’ll be royally pissed off once it’s over.

Damn it.

“I’m just making you ready,” Grace groans between licks. “I know what you want, I know you want…”

Unable to resist, she slides two fingers into Frankie’s slickness, moves them back and forth. But she keeps her head. She doesn’t rub the G-spot. And she gentles her mouth, easing Frankie back from the edge even as she prepares her for what’s to come.

“You’ll get what you want,” she says.

Frankie inhales and exhales deeply. Then she relaxes. “Holy hell, Grace,” she says hoarsely. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Grace can’t stop a smile. At the sight, Frankie’s eyes seem to fog over. She swallows visibly. “Jesus. Uh...the lube.”

Yes, the lube, they’ll need that. And yet, it’s still a moment before Grace can bring herself to pull her fingers back out of that glorious heat. Being inside Frankie is incredible.

But she’s about to be inside Frankie again. With the toy inside them both.

Grace hears herself whimper, a pathetic, needful noise. She presses her panting mouth against Frankie’s inner thigh again. She licks there too, tasting sweat.

“I want you,” she moans, and the words she can’t help saying reverberate through her, worsening the ache.

“Yeah, I know.” Frankie cups the back of her head again. “I want you, too.”

Oh God. Oh Jesus. Grace cries out softly, and next thing she knows, her hand is pushing beneath her panties. Her fingers, wet with Frankie, brush against her clit, and she bucks into her own touch. Pleasure races through her, premature and close to agony. She doesn’t _want_ it, not yet, but she can’t stop-- _I want you, too_ \--

“No,” she gasps against Frankie’s skin, her fingers moving faster in spite of herself, “oh, no--”

Two strong hands grab her shoulders. Dimly, she hears Frankie growl, “Wait for it.”

 _Stop me,_ Grace doesn’t have time to plead, before she finds herself on her back. Frankie pulls her hand out of her underwear, keeping eye contact the whole time. Her own eyes are burning. She wants Grace. She wants her, and at the realization, Grace cries out again.

“I know,” Frankie repeats, kneeling between her spread legs. “I know, Grace. We’ll get there. It’s going to feel good.” She looks at Grace’s breasts. “It’s going to feel so…”

She lowers her head and sucks Grace’s right breast into her mouth, a new kind of heat, but just as wet and tight. It rolls through Grace in a luscious wave, all the way down to her toes, and pulls a keening sound from her.

When she writhes, Frankie grabs her thigh. Her other hand strokes up to cup Grace’s face, and her mouth works to drive Grace insane. She sucks harder, and Grace turns her head into Frankie’s palm, gasping. She’s still so close. So very close. _Breathe, breathe, breathe--_

Frankie’s thumb brushes against her bottom lip. Wild, obedient, Grace opens to it, kisses its pad. Sucks it in. This hand has driven her to impossible heights, and it deserves her thanks, her worship, her...

Frankie gasps, pulls her thumb free with a wet pop, and moves to Grace’s other breast. This time she uses her teeth, just for a second, enough to make Grace’s world go hazy before she begins to lick. Grace’s hips are moving again, seeking contact and pressure, looking for anything to sate this need.

“Frankie,” someone is moaning, “Frankie, please, God, more--”

Frankie shudders and raises her head. She places it between Grace’s breasts while she pants. Her breath is hot against Grace’s sweaty skin. “Oh, Grace. Sweet honey, we gotta slow down, okay?” She kisses her way up to Grace’s throat. Her hands rub up and down Grace’s sides, as if trying to soothe her, but melting her instead. “You gotta stop making me crazy, okay?”

“Oh,” is all Grace can say, arching into Frankie’s touch, grabbing Frankie’s back with desperate hands. “Oh…”

“Shh. Shh.” Frankie kisses Grace’s throat again. “Slow down. I need you to--” Her voice cracks. “Slow down so you can fuck me. I need it.”

 _I need it._ Grace’s breath leaves her in a rush. Frankie needs it. Why didn’t she just say so before?

She closes her eyes, nods, and reaches into the dry recesses of memory. Not for past encounters that destroyed her, but for cold, hard facts. Losing money in Say Grace’s first year. Losing it again in the second while everyone counseled patience. Breaking even in the third, then the fourth, and watching profits climb steadily from the fifth on out. She can remember, down to the penny, the moment she got in the black. She can see the numbers on the spreadsheet.

There. There, now.

That’s better.

“God,” Frankie says shakily as she sits up. When Grace opens her eyes, she sees that Frankie’s focusing on the painting on the opposite wall. Frankie hates that painting, a tasteful rendering of the beach done in soft pastel colors. It must be what she’s using to cool down.

Whatever works. Grace exhales. Now that they’re not touching, she can get it together enough to say, “So, that painting turns you off?”

“Where did you find this Thomas Kinkade Lite bullshit?” Frankie mutters, still not looking away from it.

“It pulls the room together.” Grace takes in another deep breath. They can do this, slide back into the banter for a moment--just so long as they don’t take it too far. Old wounds are easy to reopen, and they both hate apologizing. “I suppose you’d prefer Jackson Pollock.”

“Put Pollock in here and you’d never sleep at night. It would totally harsh the vibe. I’ll think about it and give you some suggestions.”

“What about something of yours?” Grace blurts.

That gets Frankie to look at her, eyes going wide with surprise. Grace’s insides seem to shrink, go into full retreat from what she shouldn’t have said, though she’s not sure why she shouldn’t have said it.

But it’s too late to take it back. Best to brazen through. She clears her throat and manages to sound bland. “You said you were working on something for the interior.”

“I said I was working on _something interior.”_ Frankie rolls her eyes, but the set of her shoulders, the tension of her body, proves that Grace’s suggestion didn’t just bounce off her. “And it’s not done yet, but I don’t think it’d do much to hold this room together. It might split the dresser right in two. You don’t appreciate the power of art, Grace.”

Well, that’s just uncalled for. Grace has been to the finest museums in the world, and she’s got her favorite pieces just like anyone else. Things Frankie knows nothing about, things that would surprise her. Grace has an interior, too.

Frankie might not give a damn about it, but she’s still got one.

Grace lifts her chin and curls her lip. “You’re right. I admit, I don’t appreciate dresser-splitting art. You’ll just have to excuse me.”

She says it with all the archness she can summon, which is a hell of a lot. But Frankie doesn’t roll her eyes again. Something blazes in them instead, and when she rakes her gaze up and down Grace’s body, it scorches her.

“You don’t have to appreciate it, do you?” she says hoarsely. “Goddamn it. You _are_ a work of art.”

Grace stops breathing as the work of the last few moments unravels. They might as well have never stopped touching each other. Heat roars through her, and she reaches for Frankie at once, her hands flailing to return the compliment. She’s not great with words, she can’t afford to be, but she can show Frankie. Can’t she? She can caress, kiss, all the things that should let Frankie know--

“Gah! Quit it!” Frankie bats her hands away, almost as if she’s shooing a couple of bugs. It would be insulting if not for the hunger in her eyes. “Don’t start with me, lady. Where’s--” She looks over at the nightstand to see the jar of yam lube resting there. It should be nearly room temperature by now. “Oh, thank God. Will you finally get naked, please?”

It’s not really a request, and Grace doesn’t treat it like one. She eases the expensive panties down her thighs, and suddenly the memory of Frankie sniffing her last pair jumps into her mind. Even here, now, it makes her blush. Talk about crude, and adolescent, and--

“How do you feel about cowgirl?” Frankie asks. “You’d get an all-access pass to my boobs, and I can control how deep I take you.”

Now the blush is spreading over Grace’s whole body. Unable to speak, she watches Frankie lubricating the small, bulbous end of the vibrator. The end that’s supposed to go inside Grace.

“How much of this do you think you’re gonna need?” Frankie adds, glancing over at her. Then she glances down between Grace’s legs. Before Grace can close them, or cover herself, Frankie’s eyes widen. “Oh wow. Not much. C’mere, baby, hurry.”

“I want to be on top,” Grace gasps, before she knows she’s going to gasp it.

Frankie blinks. “You do? As in…” She sighs. “Missionary. It figures. Okay, fine.”

If she needed this less, Grace would make Frankie regret that last remark, yet another jab at Grace’s prudish past. What she wants has nothing to do with convention. It has to do with kisses and the simplicity of looking down into Frankie’s eyes.

Resolution hardens her jaw and stiffens her spine. Right. She might not have any experience with this, but she’ll figure it out. She’ll make it better than Frankie Bergstein could ever dream, so that Frankie wants to keep looking into her eyes, at least until she has to close them while ecstasy takes her. There’s not going to be any looking up at the ceiling or at Grace’s shoulder. No boredom or endurance while her partner puffs away on top of her.

“Okey-dokey, then.” Frankie lies down, rests her head on a plump pillow, and picks up the lube jar again. She holds the vibrator out to Grace with her free hand. “Hold this? I feel like I oughta do my own prep.”

“No!” Oh, dear. That came out way too strong. Frankie raises her eyebrows while Grace clears her throat. “Let me.”

Frankie gives her a long, considering look. Then she spreads her legs.

From this angle, Grace has the best view she’s had all day, and she has to hold back another whimper. It’s so ungodly beautiful. Wet, pink, and waiting for her.

“Behave yourself,” Frankie warns.

No riposte comes to mind. Grace just nods as she swirls her fingers in the lube jar. It’s only half full, and its contents bear the dips and valleys of their fingertips on the surface.

She prepares Frankie, whose eyes flutter shut. Grace takes a deep breath and uses all her willpower to keep her touch light, almost clinical. This is a new kind of torture, knowing that if she crooks her fingers just so, or speeds up her rhythm, she can have Frankie back on the edge in a heartbeat.

“Damn,” Frankie whispers, as if she’s thinking the same thing. Her hips roll into Grace’s touch. “I--I think I’m ready.”

 _Think_ isn’t good enough. Grace traces her fingertip gently up and down Frankie’s slit. “No, you’re not.”

Frankie arches up with a gasp. “Huh? Grace, trust me...”

Grace gets two fingers wetter and slides them back inside. “I’m not convinced.”

Frankie’s eyes open, and Grace savors her moment of realization. “Dammit,” Frankie chokes. “You want me to ask for it.”

“I wouldn’t say ask.” Grace rests her fingertips against the rough patch of the G-spot, applying no pressure except promise. “Not _ask._ ”

“Beg, then,” Frankie whispers. “That’s...oh...what you want?”

Grace nods, pushing her fingers deeper inside. She has no idea how many pleas she let escape on Thursday night, but Frankie’s definitely got some catching up to do.

Frankie groans, but then seems to rally. “You’re forgetting something, honey.” She picks up the jar and sticks her hand in it. “I’m not the only one who’s going to need this.”

Then two of Frankie’s fingers are slipping inside Grace, who pushes her hips forward with a soft, eager cry.

For a second, she thinks it might be all over as they start to fuck each other. With a hiss, Frankie picks up Grace’s pace, and they’re doing it in rhythm. Grace’s clit begins to throb again, her heart’s beating in her temples as they go faster and faster, little cries escaping both their mouths--

Then there’s a flare in Grace’s wrist, an undeniable and unpleasant twinge. She freezes, and at that, so does Frankie. Oh, God _damn_ it all.

“Uh. Fuck.” Frankie blinks up at her from glazed eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“My wrist,” Grace admits, hating everything for a second. Especially her arthritis. Stupid decades, stupid body, waiting this long to know what it needs. “It’s starting to hurt.”

Frankie’s mouth, set in a firm line against her arousal, widens in a grin. She even laughs as she slips her fingers out of Grace. “Saved by arthritis? Holy shit.” Then the laughter vanishes and she gives Grace a quick look. “Uh, sorry. How bad is it? You okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” Grace says at once. She pulls out of Frankie carefully. It should be fine--she hasn’t pushed herself, she’d stopped at the first sign of trouble. It’s as prudent as she gets these days. “It’s fine. Are you…?”

“Ready? You bet, mama.” Frankie’s eyes brighten with anticipation. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s okay if it’s not great the first time. No pressure. I just want to…” She touches Grace’s shoulder and watches her own sticky fingertips. “Feel what it’s like. With you.” She kisses the place her fingers touched. “That’s all.”

Ready to be insulted only moments before, now Grace sighs like a swooning idiot. Frankie could probably say anything to her if she followed it up with a tender gesture. Grace is long past being embarrassed by that. It is what it is.  

“So how does this work?” she asks.

Frankie grins, her natural enthusiasm bubbling back to the surface. She eats life up, every minute of it, second only to Babe (whom Grace needs to talk to, she really does). What’s that even like? To be so delighted by the hand you’re dealt?

To have such a smile?

Frankie takes the vibe from Grace’s hand and applies a little more lubricant to the bulb. “I think it’ll work best like this. It goes in you, then I put the lube on the long end, and we…” Her lips twitch in mischief. “Get down to business.”

“I’ll be careful,” Grace says again, but what she really means is, _I’ll make it good._ No matter what it takes. Frankie can say “no pressure” all she wants, but Grace performs better under pressure than anyone she knows.

Her resolve wavers a bit when Frankie slips the bulb inside her. She must look absurd with a fake purple penis sticking out of her. Frankie’s brief, wicked grin confirms her worst fears.

“Weird, but weirdly sexy,” Frankie says. “How’s it feel?”

“Um. Okay?” Grace clenches experimentally around the bulb. It feels bigger than it looked, and harder, and she’s glad for the lube. She really will have to be careful.

“You’ve really never used...um. Anything like this?” Frankie’s tone is unwontedly cautious.

And it’s a hell of a time for it. Grace’s face scalds. So much for the questions they don’t ask. “What did I say?”

“You didn’t.” Frankie lubricates her hand again. “You just sort of implied. I’m not trying to embarrass you, honest. I just want to know how comfortable you are. You gotta tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Wrong? The most terrifying thing about their affair is that none of it ever feels wrong. “It’s fine,” Grace begins, but then runs out of words as she watches Frankie’s hand slide up and down the shaft of the vibrator, leaving it slick.

On the upstroke, she pulls the shaft a little, and the bulb presses against Grace’s G-spot. Grace gasps at the faint pulse of pleasure.

“Jeez,” Frankie breathes. She wipes her hand on the sheet. Grace should have put down a towel. “Oh, Grace. Let’s do it. Come on.”

It takes a minute. Grace settles between Frankie’s legs, clenching on the bulb and holding the vibrator at the base so it doesn’t fall out. It’s awkward, an appendage she doesn’t know how to use. By the time she’s got it positioned at Frankie’s entrance, her confidence is half its former size and she’s praying she can pull this off.

“Slowly,” Frankie whispers, which seems like an excellent idea. Grace obeys.

 She pushes forward. It’s the most bizarre experience, knowing she’s filling Frankie up but unable to feel it. This lifeless piece of silicone isn’t like her fingers or tongue at all. Frankie’s got to give all the feedback.

“Tell me when to stop,” she says, trying to look down between their bodies. It’s beyond strange to watch the purple thing slide forward into Frankie.

 “I’m good.” Frankie closes her eyes. “Keep going, keep...okay, whoa. Stop.”

Grace freezes in place immediately, almost afraid to breathe as she looks down at Frankie, who keeps her eyes closed. “Is it okay? Does it, I mean--” How had Frankie put it? “Are you comfortable?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve used it on myself already.” Frankie opens her eyes and licks her lips. “I liked it, but it’s better with you.”

Grace’s spine tingles. Especially the base. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Frankie puts her hands on Grace’s back. “This sounds crazy, but it feels like it’s _you_ inside me. What’s it like on your end?”

“Um--” Saying “the exact opposite” seems ungracious, but she can’t pretend to ecstasy either. “I’m getting used to it.”

Frankie touches her face and searches Grace with her eyes. “It doesn’t hurt or anything?”

“Oh, no. It’s just…” Grace turns her cheek into Frankie’s reassuring touch. That helps. “Different.”

“I bet.” Frankie rubs her thumb against Grace’s bottom lip. “What would make it less different?”

In answer, Grace bends down for a kiss. At the touch of Frankie’s lips, a little of the tension shivers out of her. This is what she’d wanted, after all. Kisses, Frankie’s breasts and belly pressed against hers, so intimate and wonderfully familiar by now. Maybe this won’t be so bad. At the very least, Grace can please her partner, and isn’t that what she’s been looking forward to, anyway?

Frankie sighs and rocks her hips. The vibrator shifts backward, Grace automatically tilts and squeezes to accommodate it, and the bulb presses against her G-spot.

Perfectly.

“Ah,” she gasps, stilling against the sudden, hot throb inside her. Her hands, which had been palms-down on the bed, grab onto Frankie’s hair.

“You okay?” Frankie asks.

She sounds worried, but Grace keeps her eyes closed while she fights not to squirm and seek for more. “Um. Y-yeah. Oh my God.”

Frankie’s hands slide down Grace’s back to cup her ass. “That sounds good. Push back in a little?”

Already missing the sensation she’s about to lose, Grace pushes forward again, and...the slick silicone nub rubs against her swollen, aching clit. _“Oh!”_

“Jesus!” Frankie’s hips buck up too. “Wow, that’s--oh, wow--do that again.”

Grace does that again. She slides backward and her G-spot pulses with joy; she pushes forward, and the pressure on her clit has her seeing stars. “Oh,” she manages. “Oh, Frankie.”

“Yes.” Frankie holds her tighter. “Yes.”

Grace opens her eyes to see Frankie watching her, blue eyes hot and steady. Grace’s breath fails as she’s pulled beneath a wave of longing that has nothing to do with sex, where she can find no purchase or safety except in Frankie’s eyes. She cannot possibly look away.

Frankie doesn’t look away either. She whispers, “Again.”

Grace begins to move. Yes, again. And again, and again. Each pull backward rubs her G-spot, and each time she pushes--

\--no. _Thrusts--_

\--the nub strokes her clit. She’s never felt anything like it. And this is supposed to be for Frankie, something Frankie needs, but Grace can’t stop, not when the slightest movement makes fireworks go off in her brain. She keeps trying to say, _Is it good for you?_ Or, _Do you like it?_ But her mouth’s forgotten how to do that, how to do anything but gasp for air and press loose kisses against Frankie’s neck.

“You love it.” Frankie sounds exultant. “I knew you would!” Before Grace can stammer out a reply, Frankie draws her short fingernails gently over Grace’s ass. “Go a little faster. A little harder.” She digs her fingernails in. “Do me harder, baby.”

Grace moans, and she’s doing it, harder and faster. The sting of Frankie’s nails only heightens the glorious sensations inside her. She’s nothing but her body now. She exists only to feel.

It’s everything she’d imagined when Frankie first suggested this, everything and more. She’d never dreamed of how much she wanted this. But Frankie had known, somehow, and now she’s whispering into Grace’s ear.

“Is it good?” she’s asking, voice low and rough with desire. “I wanted this to be so good for you. I wanted you inside me. Oh, Grace, I thought about this every time I used it, practicing for you, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Grace can see it now: Frankie lying on the sofa bed in her den, legs spread while she experiments with this thing, imagining Grace is doing it instead. Moaning when she gets too close to stop, when she’s about to fuck herself over the edge, thinking about Grace.

Grace can’t speak, but her body cries out _Yours, yours, yours_.

“I thought about calling you. Telling you what I was doing. And wherever you were, you’d find some way to touch yourself, wouldn’t you?”

Grace’s hips buck forward, because _yes,_ she would have done that. Over fifty years of keeping her hands to herself, and now she can’t help it. She can never help it.

She tries to speak. Can’t. Faster. Harder.

“Oh, God. Just like that. Fuck, that’s good.” Frankie’s head tilts back onto the pillow. She closes her eyes. Her pulse beats in her flushed throat. She loves this, too. Grace is making her love it.

Grace sinks her teeth into her bottom lip at the thought. Frankie’s loving this, getting off on this, and Grace is--

Grace is on the verge of orgasm. It teases her in the pit of her belly, strokes her inner thighs with hot fingers. It calls noises from her throat and makes her hands grab the sheets on either side of Frankie’s head. It’s so close, only seconds away, tantalizing her. It would feel so good, so good...

No, fuck no, not yet! Not yet--

“No. Please, I can’t,” Grace gasps. It takes all her will to stop her hips from moving one more time while her body screams at her in frustration.

Frankie goes still beneath her. “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”

The concern in her voice would be enough to melt Grace if she weren’t clinging to the edge of sanity with her fingernails. This is, in fact, something like pain. Her--her--her _cunt_ has taken on a life of its own, and it’s hot and aching, begging her for release.

Grace swallows, and that aches, too. “No. It’s…I’m” --she has to say it-- “too close.”

“Oh, honey.” Now Frankie sounds tender. “That’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t.” Grace tucks her face into the side of Frankie’s neck, tasting the sweat there. “I don’t want to...please…”

“Okay. Okay. I do want you to, though, if that helps.”

How the fuck is that supposed to help? Grace can’t even say that. She can’t say that, or _Not before you,_ or _You feel so good this feels too good,_ or anything but a wheezy, “Why?”

“You kidding?” Frankie breathes. “Feeling you come while you’re inside me?”

Grace nearly wails as Frankie’s words rocket through her. They, alone, are almost enough. “Oh God. _Please.”_ She gulps for air. “Help me. Help...”

“Shh,” Frankie says. “Shh. It’s all right. I’ll wait.” She begins to kiss Grace’s shoulder. Her lips are soft, and they part just enough for Grace to feel the heat of Frankie’s breath.

Too much, so much-- “Stop!”

After a second, Frankie says in awe, “Jesus.”

Grace can’t respond. She doesn’t even have to move now. She could just let her mind roam, just let herself think about Frankie’s soft body beneath her. The flutters are already beginning inside her, so close to turning into an earthquake. It could happen right now, like this, Grace ready to clench on the toy while she rocks against Frankie and tries not to scream.

 _Profits. Fiscal years. Quarterly records._ How is this happening? She’s gone for months at a time without orgasms, never even thought about them really, and now she’s fighting them off at every turn. Where has all this pleasure been lurking?

Locked up inside Frankie Bergstein, obviously, waiting to wrap itself around Grace and drag her under until all she wants is to drown.

Seconds pass, and Frankie obviously judges them to be enough, because she murmurs, “Oh God. You’re driving me crazy.”

 _That’s my line,_ or _Likewise,_ or-- “F-Frankie...”

“Knowing you’re this close,” Frankie continues hoarsely. “Holding back. Why are you holding back, Grace?”

“I don’t” -- _Just say it--_ “don’t want it to end yet. I-I’m sorry. Maybe, maybe I should…” Pull out? Yeah, that’ll work. The instant she shifts her hips, it’s all over.

“It doesn’t have to end.” Frankie kisses her shoulder again, and before Grace can protest, nibbles her. Climax beckons again, growing impossible to resist. “Baby, we’ll keep going.” She kisses Grace’s earlobe, her lips wet and warm. Her breath ghosts over the spot beneath Grace’s ear as she says, “You’ll make me happy. You always do.”

“Yes,” Grace sobs, unable to hold the word back. The toy inside and against her feels hotter, daring her to move. Frankie’s mound is warm against hers, and the mix of lube and come rubs against Grace’s lips, so sensitive now that the touch of a finger or tongue would send her through the roof.

“Will you do something for me?” Frankie’s voice drops into a rasp of arousal that settles at the base of Grace’s spine and _pushes._ “Please, Grace. Please.”

“Anything,” Grace says, like always, because she can’t not say it. Frankie doesn’t even have to say _please_. Just so long as she doesn’t say _stop_ instead. “Anything. What?”

“Let me make you come.” Frankie grips Grace’s back, her palms hot. “Just like this. I know you wanna wait, but I can’t anymore. I’ve got to feel it. Please?”

Her voice breaks. Grace’s control does too, as if it’s always had a crack running down the middle, waiting for Frankie to tap and shatter it. Beyond words, she nods, rubbing her forehead into the pillow.

“Hold on,” Frankie whispers. “Hold on, honey. Just for a second longer. Okay?” Before Grace can reply, she grunts and wraps her legs around Grace, crossing them just below her ass. Holding her still and pressing her down until the toy rests firmly against her G-spot. Grace’s hips shudder and she feels herself beginning to unspool inside.

“All good?” Frankie asks. “You ready?”

For years. For decades. Not at all. “Y-yes...”

Frankie strokes her hands over Grace’s back, and then slides one hand down over Grace’s ass and between her thighs, to where the vibrator’s base rests. The base with the button on it.

“Oh, Jesus!” Grace has to close her eyes. She’s not going to survive this.

“You’ll love it.” Frankie strokes her back again. “I swear. Lowest setting.” She pushes the button.

The toy begins to vibrate inside both of them, the bulb inside Grace pressing and pulsing against her G-spot. The silicone ridge purrs against her clit.

Heart in her throat. Gray on the edges of her vision. Grace claws the sheets, fighting and _fighting_ it, knowing she’s about to lose.

Frankie gasps and pushes the button again. The vibrator speeds up within and without, tormenting Grace with the climax that’s only one breath away. Frankie’s legs keep her from moving, and all she can do is let it happen.

She grinds down helplessly. Hears herself crying, “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God,” unable to stop, already caught up in the storm.

“Holy shit!” Frankie pants. “Grace! Oh, fuck--honey, baby, please--”

Grace is gone. She’s gone, and only the stranger is left, the one who wants something. Her toes curl. _Frankie._ The earthquake starts. _Frankie._ A cataclysm of pleasure begins, deep in her core as the vibrator works her G-spot and clit mercilessly in tandem. _Frankie, Frankie, Frankie._

“Grace, look at me,” Frankie gasps, and Grace does. Frankie’s blue eyes are wide and wild. “Jesus, you’re coming in me, you’re incredible--”

Grace throws her head back, eyes closing again as she comes like she never has in her life. She can’t stop it. Her thighs lock in place. Heat spreads from her cunt, to her lips, to her clit, to every part of her, until that’s all she is. She convulses, clenches, rises up and up. She hears herself chanting, “Anything, anything--”

“Grace--”

Higher. Higher still. How can she go higher still? “I’ll do anything--I--”

“Oh.” Frankie’s voice is rising in pitch, her beautiful breasts are hot against Grace. “God, Grace...”

“I--” The words are climbing from Grace’s heart up into her mouth. They’re clogging the back of her throat. They’re on the tip of her tongue--

“No!” she gasps.

“Huh?”

_“Make it stop!”_

Frankie’s eyes widen. She immediately reaches back down for the button, fumbles, presses it, and the vibration ends. Grace’s hips buck down one more time, but the tidal wave has crashed. It recedes, and she’s left wrecked and naked on the shore.

Her thighs keep trembling anyway. Inside, she quivers around the bulb as if her body’s begging to do it again. And instead of relaxing in the aftermath, she’s still taut with the effort of restraint.

Oh God.

Oh God, that was a close one.

 _I love you,_ she does not whimper as she rests her head on Frankie’s shoulder.  

Frankie, who is panting and worried beneath her. She rubs Grace’s back. “Grace? You okay?” 

Grace manages, “Uh,” as she starts to come back to herself. Her ears are ringing. She’s still shaking. But her toes uncurl, and she manages to let go of the sheets. 

It helps. Now that she’s safe, she begins to relax. The tension dissolves, leaving only satisfied warmth behind. For the first time today, her body whispers its gratitude. Dear God, that orgasm could have given the San Andreas Fault a run for its money. Frankie was right. It had been in-fucking- _credible._  

“Are you all right?” Frankie presses. “Does it hurt?”

Yes, it hurts a little. The toy is starting to feel too hard and rigid against her sensitized flesh. Another deprivation of aging--years ago, she would have been fine. She still doesn’t want to be anywhere but here, so closely connected to Frankie with their sweaty bodies plastered together. What’s a little discomfort compared to that?

“No,” she breathes. She kisses Frankie’s soft shoulder. Then she nuzzles beneath her ear, earning a gasp. “It’s wonderful.”

“Um--you sure? Because--” Frankie’s fingertips dig into Grace’s back. The words come out in a rush when she says, “Because I’m so fucking close and I wanna do you. Please, Grace, I need to know what it’s like, being inside you like that. I didn’t think I would, but I do.”

Grace gasps. She is already moving, sliding her hips back carefully. Frankie inhales as the toy slips out of her, and Grace can’t help looking down at it, the purple silicone slick and gleaming from Frankie’s body. Her mouth parts on a little groan just at the sight of it. She did that. She fucked Frankie into feeling that.

“Baby,” Frankie whispers, “please.”

“Yes.” Grace takes hold of the slippery base of the toy. She almost drops it when she gingerly pulls it out of herself. The bulb on her end is even wetter, and a viscous string of fluid follows it on its way out--something that would have disgusted her once, embarrassed her, but now just makes her shake. She wants. She’s someone who wants.

Frankie’s eyes are big as dinner plates as she looks at it too. “Jesus. Oh, gosh, Grace. You--uh, you wanna stay on top? We can just--” She keeps her thighs open, her vulva glistening. “You can put the other part in me, and…”

“It’ll fall out,” Grace says hoarsely. Her pelvic floor isn’t what it used to be, nor are her knees, and gravity is against them. Besides, that’s not what Frankie needs. How had she put it? “And you want to _do_ me too hard for that, don’t you?”

Frankie’s jaw drops and her eyes spark with fresh desire. “Oh, God. I see what you meant. Stop talking.” She sits up with a grunt and reaches for the lube jar. “Lemme…”

“Put it on the toy,” Grace says at once. The less direct contact, the better. “Not on me.”

Frankie gives her a quick glance. “Why? You sure you’re okay?”

“Positive.” Grace lies on her back. In spite of her soreness, arousal tingles inside her again, and when Frankie makes to push the G-spot end inside herself, Grace takes hold of the shaft with her still-sticky hand.

Frankie says, “What--”

“Like this,” Grace whispers, angles it, and slides the bulb home inside Frankie.

Frankie gasps, and her eyelids flutter. “Oh. _Wow.”_

Grace keeps her hand on the shaft. “Feels good, right?”

“Holy shit. It’s right there. Are our G-spots in the same place? Because that’d be so cool. You wouldn’t think--”

Experimentally, Grace begins to stroke the shaft up and down.

Frankie’s words die in her mouth. She stops breathing for a second, then resumes in rapid, shallow pants as she watches Grace’s hand. Together, they listen to the wet, obscene sounds of the lubricant against Grace’s palm.

Grace’s heart begins to race again. She dips the fingertips of her free hand into the jar. And then she uses both hands to lubricate the toy, nice and slow, tugging on it a little.

Frankie’s eyes roll back in her head. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” Grace whispers, licking her lips. If she’s judging this right, the bulb is pressing right against Frankie’s G-spot with every upstroke. And Grace knows damn well how good that feels.

“Oh, Jesus. You’re jerking me off.” Frankie gives a high, breathless laugh. Her hips undulate. “I’m getting a handjob.”

Frankie was right. Now that Grace’s brain isn’t threatening to dissolve, this _is_ fun. “Mm-hmm.”

“Damn, that’s good technique.” Frankie opens her eyes and grins. “Remember doing this for boys, back in the Stone Age?”

Grace wrinkles her nose. She remembers dull nights in back seats, pacifying Roger and David so they wouldn’t pester her for what she wouldn’t give. At least Jerome had returned the favor and brought her off too--her first orgasm, a bright, brief spasm that had left her wanting more than she would get for over fifty years.

God, dicks are ridiculous. The purple shaft sticking out of Frankie should be even more so, but somehow it isn’t. Beneath the layer of yam lube is Frankie herself, her natural wetness. What Grace likes to taste most in the world. What she wants to...

Oh, no, she can’t do that. It’s not even the real thing. She’s _never_ liked doing the real thing. It’s not as if the vibrator is really part of Frankie, not as if Frankie will be able to feel--

“Grace?”

Grace looks up from the vibrator to see Frankie watching her with glazed eyes, her full mouth gone slack. Her breasts rise and fall rapidly.

“What are you thinking?” Frankie whispers. “What do you want?”

Wrong question. Grace knows what she wants. The real question is: why bother pretending otherwise? 

She keeps hold of the base of the toy, bends her head, and closes her mouth over the shaft. Her tongue strokes against the underside, catching the flavor she craves.

“Holy _fuck!”_ Frankie gasps.

It’s not the same. Beneath the yams and the come is the taste of silicone, not skin. The toy is warm from Frankie’s body, but unmistakably artificial against Grace’s tongue. She sucks anyway, taking what she can get while Frankie grabs her hair.

“Grace.” Frankie’s voice cracks. “Oh my God. If you could see yourself.”

Grace can’t, and she doesn’t want to. She wants to see Frankie, so she opens her eyes and looks up.

When Grace looks into her eyes, Frankie bucks her hips forward. Grace opens her mouth wider, just barely managing to accommodate the vibe while Frankie gasps, “Sorry! You okay? I didn’t mean to--”

For answer, Grace bobs her head, mindful not to go too far down. Her neck and jaw are starting to yell at her, but she doesn’t want to stop, can’t imagine stopping while Frankie’s moans go deep and guttural. She can still taste the lube, taste Frankie, and she fucking loves being the woman who’s doing this outrageous thing. She never looks away from Frankie’s eyes.

Frankie can’t seem to break contact either. Her eyes are as wide as any human being’s could possibly go. “Grace. Oh, honey. How are you--” She puts both hands in Grace’s hair now. “How are you doing this to me?”

Grace swirls her tongue over the toy’s tip as she tugs at its base, rubbing the bulb against Frankie’s G-spot again.

“ _Christ!_ No, wait! Wait,” Frankie pleads. “I can’t, I’m gonna--oh God, if you don’t stop--”

Grace’s spine tingles with triumph as she raises her head. Her jaw aches, but she can’t help giving Frankie a shit-eating grin.

 _Nailed it,_ the little voice sing-songs.

Frankie lets go of her hair with shaky hands. “I almost came! It was like you were sucking my actual dick. I didn’t know that was possible.” She pushes a lock of hair out of her face, but when she looks at Grace’s mouth, she squeezes her eyes shut again. She even puts a hand over them. “Oh, God.”

It’s easy to imagine what Frankie just saw: Grace’s mouth reddened, swollen, covered with lube and come. And Frankie’s so desperate she can’t even afford to look lest she go over the edge. Grace can’t remember the last time she was this proud of herself. She wipes both hands on the sheets (might as well) and pats Frankie’s soft, bare thigh.

“Not too different from boys after all,” she murmurs, her voice dropping into the register that makes mere satellites of men, drawing them into her orbit so they’ll give her what she wants. “Are you also going to come in ten seconds, or can you make it to the main event?”

When Frankie opens her eyes, Grace spreads her legs.  

Frankie’s eyes go wild at once. She throws herself on top of Grace. “Grace Hanson, you minx,” she gasps. “Brace yourself!”

Grace does. In fact, as Frankie scrambles to lie between her thighs and presses the tip of the vibe to her entrance, she fights not to tense up all over.

Robert is her only experience of penetrative sex. That’s no longer fashionable to admit. But she’d heard so many times from her mother that her future husband would naturally expect to be the first, and she didn’t want to ruin herself for him, now did she? Besides, it was sinful. So was touching herself. _God is always watching,_ Mother said.

Well, He can get an eyeful now. It serves Him right. Grace will have this. She’s going to take this.

But sin has a price, and Grace pays it while Frankie pushes forward. She’s still tender inside. And though some lubricant remains on the toy and in her, it’s not enough. She bites her lip to muffle a gasp and looks up at the ceiling fan, counting the blades and light bulbs. She focuses on her breath.

Frankie comes to rest inside her. Her face is bright red, and frizz and sweat wreck her hair. A blush mottles her chest and throat. Her breasts sway loose and low.

Oh Lord, she’s everything. Everything, and Grace cups her face with trembling hands as she looks at Frankie’s blue eyes and the crow’s feet around them. No mascara or eyeshadow, nothing but blue, nearly swallowed by desire-dilated pupils.

“You okay?” Frankie croaks. Her thighs are trembling against Grace’s. “Ev...everything okay?”

“Yes. Yes.” Grace keeps her hands on Frankie’s face. “How does it feel?”

“I--I can’t describe it.” Frankie’s eyes fall shut and her head dips forward. “Oh, honey. I gotta move.”

Grace takes a deep breath. “Then move.”

“I’m inside you, Grace...I…” Frankie braces herself and clutches the sheets. She rocks her hips. “I gotta move…”

“So--move--” This time, Grace can’t keep the hitch out of her voice.

Frankie doesn’t seem to hear. She pushes forward, and loses the rhythm almost immediately as the toy rubs against her clit on one end and rubs inside her with the other. She’s chasing the pleasure, already on the edge, moaning with every thrust.

Grace grabs Frankie’s back, keeps her eyes closed, and revels in it. All of it. She’s giving Frankie what she needs, and _she’s_ what Frankie needs, right here and now. She can take the hurt. It’s part of all the rest, part of the biggest and best thing Grace has ever known. She whispers, “Yes.”

“Oh, Grace.” Frankie lets go of the sheets to seize Grace’s shoulders while she presses their damp foreheads together. Her breath puffs against Grace’s lips, and that’s enough to draw her in for a kiss. Frankie’s tasting the lube, tasting her own come, and the realization sends a shock of pleasure through Grace that annihilates the pain. When they part, Frankie moans her name once more.

Grace clings to her. “I want you.” There it is, again and again. She can never stop it. “Oh God, Frankie, I want you so much--”

“Fuck!” Frankie pushes all the way in and rocks back and forth on the toy, stimulating herself past bearing. “Jesus Christ! I’m coming--I--” Her mouth falls open. “Ah--”

Grace slides her hands down to grab Frankie’s hips, setting her jaw against the thing wedged inside her. That doesn’t matter, only this matters. “Give it to me--give--”

“ _God!”_ Frankie’s hips jerk forward again, again, then once more before she comes to a halt, shaking all over. “Oh my God.” She shivers, sighs, and lowers her head to rest it between Grace’s breasts, breathing hard.

“Grace,” she whispers.

Grace’s eyes fall shut while Frankie’s tremors begin to subside. Perfect.

“I’m here,” she says, and combs her fingers through Frankie’s damp hair. “How was it?”

“Holy shit.” Frankie turns her head so that her cheek presses to Grace’s skin. “It was like...I really could feel it. You know what I mean?”

Grace certainly does. “Yeah.”

“Wow. Good idea, Frankie. I’d pat myself on the back if I could move.”

Grace wants to laugh, but she’s too busy taking deep breaths. In, out, in. Now that the storm has blown through, she’s coming back to herself. She’s also trying not to squirm.

“Are you done?” she manages.

Frankie laughs wheezily. “You kidding? I could take the gold medal in never moving from this spot.”

Grace knows exactly how she feels. All the same-- “Well...um…”

“Oh jeez, I’m probably smothering you, aren’t I? Sorry.” Frankie raises herself up on shaky elbows, and doesn’t look particularly sorry as she beams down at Grace. “That was...I don’t even know. Fantastic. Thank you.” She kisses Grace swiftly and sweetly. “Thank you.”

Grace’s thin laugh sounds less than sincere to her own ears. “Hetero-whatever isn’t so bad, huh?”

“Honey, I think we just exploded that dynamic.” Frankie begins to raise her hips. “I’m thinking about writing my dissertation on--”

“Slowly!” Grace blurts. “Slow--slow and steady wins the race, right?”

She tries to sound teasing, but doesn’t quite succeed, and Frankie’s smile vanishes into a sharp look. “Okay,” she says, and slides carefully backward.

Thank God the toy’s tip tapers down instead of mimicking the bulbous head of a real penis--that was always Grace’s least favorite part of withdrawal. Instead, it emerges smoothly. Grace can’t stop a deep sigh of relief.

Worth it, though. So worth it. It’s every bite mark Frankie can’t leave on her, every hickey or scratch of nails down her back. For a while, whenever Grace sits down, she’ll have a reminder of today. A temporary tattoo that reads, _Frankie Was Here._

She’s still basking in the thought when Frankie yelps, “What the _fuck!”_

Grace opens her eyes to see Frankie gazing in horror between their bodies as she pulls the vibrator out of herself. The shock on her face makes Grace’s own skin prickle. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s blood on it!” As if to make sure Grace understands what blood is, Frankie waves the toy in the air. At the tip of the long end, mixed in with the lube and come, is a red smear. “And it isn’t mine, it wasn’t there before. Oh, Jesus. Pass me the phone.”

“The phone?” Grace props herself on her elbows. “What the hell for?”

“So we can call 911!”

“Oh, my--” Grace looks up to the ceiling and asks the celestial Peeping Tom for strength. “Frankie, calm down. It’s fine.”

“Fine? Since when does blood mean anything is fine?” Frankie squints at her. “Or is it your time of the month? No, wait. It definitely is not.”

“It definitely is not,” Grace agrees. “Frankie...”

“Are you hemorrhaging?” Frankie drops the vibe on the bed, and Grace grimaces at what it leaves on the white sheets. That’s going to be hard to get out. “Let me see.”

“Frankie, don’t--”

Too late. Frankie’s already peering between Grace’s legs in the least erotic way possible, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed. The flush of arousal has vanished from her face, and she’s gone pale. “Okay, you’re not bleeding out, but I need a speculum. Where’s yours?”

“In the bathroom next to my cold cream,” Grace snaps. She closes her thighs--show’s over. It’s okay. If the pain was sharp and sudden, then she’d be worried, but it’s low and steady and very nearly warm. _A sweet ache_ , as a romance novel would call it. “I don’t have a goddamn speculum. Frankie, it’s just a little blood. It’s--it’s been a while for me. That’s all.”

“Been a while?” Frankie gives her a wide-eyed look. “How long? You didn’t tell me that. Grace, did it hurt? While I was...” She seems unable to continue.

Grace fumbles for words that will be both honest and reassuring. She sits up, unable to help a grunt of effort. Her shoulders are complaining about the way she’s been resting on her elbows. Her neck’s pissed off about the blowjob, too. That’s worse than what Frankie’s freaking out about. “Only a little. Right at the end.”

“How close to the end? I asked you, and you said you were okay. More than once.” It would have been an accusation if not for the way guilt transforms Frankie’s face, making the corners of her mouth sag down.

The sight makes Grace’s blood freeze. Guilt? Guilt is very, very bad. “I was okay. I am okay. Better than okay, I’m--”

“Why didn’t you tell me to stop?”

“Because I didn’t want you to!” Grace takes Frankie’s hands, wobbling on the tightrope between anxiety and annoyance. “Listen. Are you listening? I liked it.”

“You...” A troubled line appears between Frankie’s eyebrows. “You liked it?”

“Yes! I did!” Sort of? She’d certainly _wanted_ it, and that’s close enough.

“You liked it. Grace, do you...” Frankie presses her lips together, and her hands tense in Grace’s, as if she’s fighting not to pull them free. “Do you like getting hurt? Do you want me to hurt you? Because I’m--”

“No,” Grace says immediately. “That’s not what--”

“I’m not into that. As in, I seriously cannot do it.” Frankie squares her jaw. “You know what? One time I was backing out of my driveway, and I smooshed a baby goldfinch with my car. A _baby goldfinch,_ Grace. I built a shrine for it, and I was still off-kilter for a week. I didn’t mean to do it, but I did it, and Grace, just in case this is going over your head? I’m comparing you to the baby goldfinch.”

“I’m wise to the metaphor, Emily Dickinson.” Grace tightens her grip on Frankie. “I didn’t mean I’m a, a masochist, or whatever you call it. I just meant…” Oh God, what can she say now? _I like the pain because it proves you were with me, that you were a part of me. For a little while._

Sure, why not say that? And send Frankie fleeing out the door for good, because Grace is obviously in way too deep.

Grace’s palms are sweating. She still can’t let go of Frankie’s hands.

“I just meant it was intense,” she manages. “More intense than I’d expected, more overwhelming, and…” She swallows, forcing herself to keep looking into Frankie’s doubtful eyes. “That’s what I liked. The pain was only a part of it. It was…” This isn’t a lie. This is the right thing to say. “It was big. No, it was _huge._ You felt me come, right?”

“Um, duh?” Frankie laughs shakily. “I’m pretty sure everybody in San Diego felt you come.”

Even as she goes weak with relief--laughter, that’s good--Grace can’t help rolling her eyes. “I certainly hope not. Frankie.” She leans forward, pulling their clasped hands between her breasts. “It was amazing. I’d do it all over again, honestly.”

Frankie bites her lip. “I wouldn’t.” She looks down at the toy. “Uh, I think we’re gonna retire that thing. You didn’t even want to use it in the first place.” She looks back at Grace, and her eyes get glassy. She blinks too fast. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” Grace tugs her hands free and throws her arms around Frankie. It’s instinctive, the way she imagines doing a line of cocaine must feel, setting her brain on fire and propelling her into action. “Frankie, don’t be sorry, okay? I loved it. We don’t have to do it again, but I loved it. I swear.”

“Okay.” Frankie sniffles and puts her arms around Grace, too. She rests her chin on Grace’s shoulder, and Grace’s cheek brushes against Frankie’s hair.

“Hush, now,” Grace whispers, “don’t cry.” She rubs Frankie’s back. “It’s all right, sweetheart, we’re okay.”

Frankie’s breath catches, and Grace wonders why, until she realizes what just fell out of her mouth: _we._ She’d claimed the pronoun as a name, as if _We_ is an entity she can shake hands with or hold in her arms. Oh, damn it, Frankie’s going to--

“Yeah,” Frankie says quietly. “We are.” She kisses Grace’s shoulder and squeezes her.

 _Oh._ Grace closes her eyes. It’s too much, far too much to contemplate now--the idea that Frankie might think of them as _we_. Grace can break if she hopes too hard.

She gathers herself, opens her eyes, and sits back. She puts one hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “Hey. Enough of that. Who’s up for ice cream?”

Frankie’s tentative smile turns into a real grin, and as always, Grace can’t help returning it. Talk about instinctive. That smile could power all of California in a blackout.

“Do you really have to ask?” Frankie says.

Grace chuckles. “I guess not. Let’s go.”

“Okay.” Frankie cups Grace’s cheek and leans in for a kiss. She lingers there gently, as if she’s trying to make up for earlier. It’s tenderness, not love, but it’s good enough. You can live on “good enough” and still be better off than you were before.

“I’m sorry too,” Grace whispers when they part. “I won’t let it hurt again. I’ll tell you.”

“Damn right you will.” Frankie pats Grace’s knee. A wobble underlies the bravado in her voice, but she kisses Grace again. “Communication is key. Like when that raccoon was standing on my doorstep and just not getting out of the way, so I had to make eye contact and really work on my non-threatening hand gestures before she got the point. We got along great after that. I called her Ishtar, though I have no idea if it was her true name.”

“Mm-hmm,” Grace says with the dismissiveness of decades. Only thing is, now she wonders if raccoons really can be called by name. They’re supposed to be smart, aren’t they?

Four months into this, and her sense of reality is taking a casual step to the left. God help her, if Frankie ever starts making complete sense, then Grace better check herself into the nearest psychiatric hospital.

Clearly reassured, Frankie hops off the bed with far too much energy and flexibility for someone their age. It’s so unfair; the woman doesn’t even take a multivitamin. She opens the closet door and pulls one of Grace’s robes off its hanger.

She gives Grace her unique combination of a half smile, raised eyebrow, and creased forehead. “Are you really gonna eat ice cream?”

“Of course. Well, the sorbet. That’s why I got it.”

“I should’ve known.” Frankie shrugs the robe on. When all that lovely skin disappears beneath blue terrycloth, Grace sighs.

Frankie smirks at the sound. “C’mon, drag your skinny ass out of bed so I can enjoy delicious chocolate while you eat your overpriced Sno-Cone.”

Her eyes dart over Grace’s body as she speaks. Grace realizes, then, that she’s fully naked and Frankie is not. Frankie, in fact, is very well covered. Grace doesn’t even have her Carine Gilson to put them on even footing.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Frankie murmurs. “No wonder I can’t keep my hands to myself.” She holds up a finger while Grace blushes. “No more pain, though.”

“Don’t worry.” Grace looks longingly at the silk robe dangling next to the empty coat hanger. “I won’t be asking for a spanking any time soon. Um--could you give me--”

“Sure.” Frankie takes the robe down and inspects it. “This isn’t exactly full length, is it? You brazen hussy.”

Grace rolls her eyes and takes the robe from Frankie’s hand. “Yeah. It exposes most of my calves. Is that your idea of skimpy?” Actually, with the way Frankie tends to dress, covered head-to-toe, it probably is. She’s chosen a bathrobe that goes down to her ankles.

“‘Is that your idea of skimpy?’” Frankie mocks. “What if it is? Don’t robe-shame me. Jeez, if anybody ever did deserve to get spanked, it’s you.”

“Uh--” Grace drops the robe in her lap. There was a low, rich note in Frankie’s voice that couldn’t have been intentional. It makes Grace go hot from head to toe anyway.

She and Frankie stare at each other. Frankie’s cheeks go rosy. Grace’s heart stutters.

“I mean,” Frankie says, “not that I’d ever--”

“Right.” Grace nods hard. “Right, right, right.”

“Anyway, Ben and Jerry are calling me,” Frankie says, pivots on her heel, and bolts out of the room like her hair’s on fire.

Grace presses her palms to her burning face. Oh, God. Of course they won’t. That’s just... _deviant._ There’s no way they’ll--

 _A sweet ache,_ her body murmurs, and the throb between her legs agrees.

She shakes her head to clear it, and takes in her surroundings. The smell of sex hangs in the air, indefinable but unmistakable. The stick of incense, nearly burned out, can’t mask it. After it fades from the air, it will cling to the sheets, which are sticky with sweat, smeared with lubricant and--yes--a small spot of blood, right where Frankie dropped the vibrator. Then there’s the vibrator itself, naturally. There can be no question of what happened here today.

What if Grace doesn’t clean up? What if she leaves everything as it is?

What if, the next time Robert decides it’s time for a stop at the beach house, he walks into the bedroom and finds it just like this?

She can picture it now: his face reddening as realization crawls over him. Not just the revelation that he’s been betrayed, but that someone else wanted Grace, even for a stolen afternoon. He wouldn’t have to know it was Frankie--he’d never guess that, and Grace would never tell.

Grace rubs her forehead at her foolishness. It wouldn’t matter. The result would be the same in the end: no more Frankie. The minute Grace presses the self-destruct button on her marriage, Sol will side with Robert, and she’ll never see Frankie again. Nothing's worth that. Not even freedom.

She stands, groans as her whole body aches in concert, and slips on the silk robe. She needs a shower, but that’ll come after the sour sorbet she’ll almost enjoy while Frankie shovels chocolate into her mouth. She better go downstairs, or Frankie will wonder what’s taking her so long.

And yet, instead of leaving, Grace glances into the depths of the closet. The mirror’s in there, waiting for her to take another look. She should check her hair and make sure she’s presentable, even if it’s just for a postcoital snack.

She tells her feet to carry her there. They refuse.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She tugs the robe more tightly around herself. Thinks, _Stop being a coward, just a quick look, what’s wrong with you?_ She’s got to do it. She never leaves rooms without knowing what she looks like first. It’s not like she’s ten years old and thinks there’s a monster in there waiting to grab her.

“Grace?” Frankie calls from downstairs. “You fall in the toilet or something?”

The spell breaks. Grace huffs out a laugh. How silly she's being. “No. I’ll be right down.”

“How do you think lemon sorbet would go with chocolate and marshmallow ice cream? Oh, never mind. It’s fucking gross. _Ugh._ ”

Time to save Frankie from herself. Grace pats down her hair. She closes the closet door, and if she looks at the beach painting while she does it, that’s nobody’s business but her own. She closes the bedroom door behind her too, and keeps her tread light, keeps her eyes on her bare toes while she descends the stairs.

**FIN.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is awesome!


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